What I remember most about that house is the presence of the sky. In a city that is so densely constructed and inhabited, it is hard to find something as elemental and free as celestial blue and its twilights. I still believe that being dedicated to architecture in Mexico involves taking maximum advantage of its light. In that sense, 77 Eucaliptos lent itself to this luminous condi tion and my intention of trapping light from dawn until dusk. On many of the walls I made deliberate cuts; I scratched and scored them, which is tantamount to drawing with light. Once you get to know the house, you feel how the terrain drops. As it descends, it opens out into the backyard and ends at a cliff: a space that produces an intense sensation of vertigo, of openness.
I traced a curved line from one end of the terrain to the other. My idea here was that upon entering the home, guests would proceed down a long hallway with no visible end. The composition of 77 Eucaliptos had two basic objectives: the first was to honor the cliff. I wanted to somehow play with the vertigo it caused and recreate that sensation in the user. The second had to do with five trees that surrounded the existing construction. These were the basis of my composition of a series of windows and patios designed to frame them, as well as certain retaining walls that bordered the terrain and future constructions. Two bay trees made their presence especially known. I have frequently taken it upon myself to designate specific spaces in my houses for the works of certain visual artists. That way, their works are integrated with mine and they find their own space, one not left to chance, where they can be contemplated and admired.
Artworks that are often the creations of friends and colleagues simultaneously represent and complement my archi tectural spaces. This concept or exercise in coexistence, this unusual encounter between visual artists and architecture, has turned out to be most pleasant and enriching.